Every half hour Jim takes me and Mike out for a smoke break. I had never smoked before but seen enough to pretend. The cigarette burns my throat dry and scratchy. Like swallowing a handful of warm sand. Mike grins, watching me. He says I smoke like a pussy.
I get off an hour before the men. The walk home is peaceful. Long. The October breeze dries the leftover sweat on my neck. Momma asked me to bring home a party pack. Soft shell. Her only request on sloppy drunk nights.
I work at the Taco Bueno on 82nd Street. I’m one of three teenagers on staff, the only female unless you count old Marilou who sits in the lobby when Jim’s working. She’s either his mom or girlfriend. She never speaks.
Jim is 29 but looks 54. Been with Bueno since he was a teenager himself. Worked the fryer until he promoted and transferred to 82nd. His hair is long. Sloppy curls in a greasy pony. He talks to me all nice when Marilou isn’t looking.
And she isn’t.
A rattling black pick-up pulls up beside me. The passenger window slides down, revealing Jim.
“Get in and get warm.”
I get in.
Jim ignores directions to Momma’s house and instead stops at Hop & Sack. Grabs two tallboys and a pack of Marlboros. He drives to a weedy football field in a trailer park lit only by two flickering streetlights. Him and Marilou live around here, he tells me. He parks and hands me a beer.
“That woman loves to watch me work,” he says.
I don’t ask.
The beer is gross, room temp. Like it hadn’t sat in the fridge long before Jim snagged it. Despite the taste, I take big gulps. I don’t want to drink like a pussy, too.
Jim lights a cigarette for us to share. I mimic his inhales and exhales, still not understanding what Mike meant. I cough.
He asks how old I am.
“Eighteen.” The lie rolls out easily. Momma taught me that; how to tell men what they want to hear.
I hadn’t eaten since before my shift so the alcohol and nicotine hit quick. My brain turns hot and fuzzy. Jim leans over the middle console, getting close to my ear. He asks if this is okay and I don’t have time to answer before his tongue laps up the salty residue from my neck.
His calloused hands roam on and up my thigh, scraping against my work slacks. He smells like tacos and grease and onions and beer and smoke. A burp pops out of his mouth and he laughs like it’s the funniest thing. I chuckle, too, not because I find it funny but because I don’t want to embarrass him. My stomach growls and I hope he hears. Maybe we can put a pause on this and eat some of Momma’s party pack.
He doesn’t acknowledge it.
I wonder if Momma’s thinking I should be back by now or if she’s too drunk to notice. Jim doesn’t show signs of stopping, grabbing and kissing at various parts of my body. I don’t let him near my lips, but he doesn’t take it as complete rejection.
I end up giving him a blowjob to avoid things progressing further. His dick hair matches his head: greasy and long. He doesn’t last long. He releases on his pants and it looks like the fake, processed sour cream packets we give out at Bueno.
He cleans himself and finally drives to Momma’s. Before I hop out, he tells me I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Then asks me not to say anything to Marilou.
When I walk in, Momma is sprawled out on the couch, passed out with an empty can in her hand. A blessing, since I forgot the tacos with Jim.
Courtney McEunn is from southwest Oklahoma and has published stories in X-R-A-Y, ANMLY, Red Rock Review, and others. She received an MFA from Oklahoma State University and is the social media manager for Matchbook. Read more of her work here: http://www.courtneymceunn.com.